darkness. "What's up? Are you frightened--?"

Even before the question was out of his mouth he knew it was foolish,
for any man with a pair of eyes in his head could see that the Canadian
had turned white down to his very gills. Not even sunburn and the glare
of the fire could hide that.

The student felt himself trembling a little, weakish in the knees.
"What's up?" he repeated quickly. "D'you smell moose? Or anything queer,
anything--wrong?" He lowered his voice instinctively.

The forest pressed round them with its encircling wall; the nearer tree
stems gleamed like bronze in the firelight; beyond that--blackness, and,
so far as he could tell, a silence of death. Just behind them a passing
puff of wind lifted a single leaf, looked at it, then laid it softly
down again without disturbing the rest of the covey. It seemed as if a
million invisible causes had combined just to produce that single
visible effect. _Other_ life pulsed about them--and was gone.

Défago turned abruptly; the livid hue of his face had turned to a dirty
grey.

"I never said I heered--or smelt--nuthin'," he said slowly and
emphatically, in an oddly altered voice that conveyed somehow a touch of
defiance. "I was only--takin' a look round--so to speak. It's always a
mistake to be too previous with yer questions." Then he added suddenly
with obvious effort, in his more natural voice, "Have you got the
matches, Boss Simpson?" and proceeded to light the pipe he had half
filled just before he began to sing.